Hybrid Vigor, Part 4

Notice:  This story has been rated "NC17" for adult language, nudity,
strong sexual content, violence, and explicit smoking.  If you find any
of this objectionable, I suggest you try another fetish.

Copyright 1997 by G. M. Sullivan.  All rights reserved.  This story may
be copied and distributed for the uncompensated amusement of others
only.

Author's note:  This story takes place during the spring before the
events described in "Dying for a Cigarette" and "Phoenix Ascending."
While it is not necessary to read those stories to enjoy this one, I
recommend them to you with full prejudice.

Dedication:  For Sstoryman, with deepest respect.


"Hybrid Vigor"  Part Four of Five


Part Four:  The Shape of Things to Come

10.  Musings and Plans

Back in her cubicle, Shelly tried to put some perspective on the
morning's events.  Just two days on this assignment, and her whole
world had been turned over and scrambled.

She shook a cigarette loose from her half-full pack of "RCJ Premiums,"
as she privately called them.  Seeing how Dr. Ryan had shown no
hesitancy to smoke from this same pack had reassured her, and she had
freely indulged since the tour.  This would be the seventh she had
smoked, with three having been taken by Dr. Ryan.

She lit the cigarette and drew deeply, her cheeks caving in with the
effort to draw as much smoke as possible.  She had read that smoking
cut down on lung capacity, though that was said to take a long time.
These seemed to have the opposite effect, and in a much faster span.

She held the smoke in for several seconds, then exhaled onto her desk.
She was amazed by the volume of smoke that emerged, yet knew she would
still be exhaling for several breaths yet.  As she allowed the
remaining smoke to escape her nostrils with each succeeding breath, she
felt the now-familiar and pleasant effects.  Unlike the "normal"
cigarettes, these effects never really ceased between smokes, but each
cigarette took the pleasure a notch higher.

She took a second drag and considered her assignment.  Instead of
blowing out a plume, she simply let the smoke escape as it willed.
Soon she was veiled in a thick cloud, but felt no desire whatsoever to
dispel it.  She simply sat, thought, and breathed out smoke.

Whatever Brickman might think, there seemed to be nothing sinister
going on here.  In fact, Dr. Ryan's research was likely to gain him the
Nobel Prize if even half his hopes were realized.  Brickman, though,
would not see it that way.  He would find all sorts of dire
consequences and ulterior motives to condemn, and would use all his
resources to shut the project down.  She didn't believe that he or
anyone else stood a chance against Dr. Ryan...the man was just too
brilliant, too strong.  However, with the currently prevailing
anti-tobacco attitude, Brickman could at least cause delays.  Shelly
was not inclined to allow that.

Dragging again, she pulled her microbiology text off the shelf above
her desk and thumbed to the place where she had quit reading over the
weekend.  She was no longer very surprised to find the those previously
baffling equations seemed like third-grade arithmetic now.  She blew
smoke into the open book, watching the letters and diagrams swirl into
obscurity.  She found she could read the final chapters quickly and
with pleasure.  If she wanted, she could recite entire pages back to
herself with no errors.  This was a godsend...how could it possibly be
bad?

Her mind gave a small jolt as she was suddenly hit with the certainty
that Dr. Ryan knew who she was and why she was here.  She HAD been
foolish to think she could deceive someone like him.  She could now
thing of a hundred ways he could have found her out in no time flat,
and he must also know that she would figure this out sooner or later.
It was a relief, of sorts...no more pretending, at least with him.
Tomorrow, she would make the unnecessary confession at their morning
meeting.

She gathered her things to leave, feeling frustration building.  She
could not share any of this with Brickman, but she needed to talk to
someone other than Dr. Ryan.  Someone friendly and sympathetic, even if
incapable of understanding the immensity of it all.  She thought of
Mary Lou...


11.  The Rest of the Story

Dr. Ryan stood in the middle of greenhouse number three, wearing an
orange Racal containment suit.  He was trying to analyze an unfamiliar
emotion, and at last identified it as guilt.

He had not enjoyed lying to Shelly Aronsen.  Impostor or no, he
genuinely liked her.  Part of that he knew was from the stimulation of
watching her smoke, and the further libido stimulation caused by his
own RCJ consumption.  Another factor was that, as she became mentally
quicker, he found himself catching a far-off glimpse of the sort of
companionship he had often craved but never found.

At this point, she certainly was benefiting intellectually more than he
was from using RCJ.  Perhaps there was a limit to human intelligence,
and he was simply closer to it than she was.  Perhaps whatever made him
so unusual also made him immune to the mental benefits of RCJ.  That
was a disturbing thought; she might outstrip him, eventually.  Her, and
then millions of others, leaving him the sole moron in a world of
geniuses.  Well, no point in fretting over that just yet...

He looked around at the rows of NCR, Nicotiana Coelensis Ryanii, the
hybrid he had denied existed.  Even to an expert's eye, there was very
little to distinguish these plants from the "normal" tobacco growing in
greenhouse number one.  The purple pigment (RCJ's chlorophyll analogue)
was only visible at the base of the roots, and then only after a very
close examination.  Even the pickiest farmer would judge these plants
quite acceptable for harvesting and sale.

This latest hybrid had an ideal blend of RCJ and nicotiana
characteristics.  The effects of smoking this tobacco would be roughly
equivalent to that of his "hand-blended" cigarettes.  He had also
managed to temper the super-fecundity of RCJ, eliminating the danger
that this hybrid might overrun other crops.  This would likely be the
final production model.

And now, he thought, the legal battles would begin.  Tobacco, though
classified as a drug, was not yet truly regulated as such.  Tobacco
companies still, for the moment, had the privilege of keeping cigarette
ingredients confidential as trade secrets.  Osborn-Smithson's position
would be that FDA approval was not required for this "improvement" to a
standard product.  The government would doubtless take a different
stance, once the scope of the change became evident.  If the FDA won
out, it would take at least ten years of clinical trials before his
hybrid was approved for general use.

Which, he reasoned, it would never be.  Not in America and not anywhere
else.  It was never in the interest of those in power to allow massive
improvements to the general public, particularly if it involved an
increase in intelligence.  Inevitably, his discovery would be buried in
red tape, or worse, lost entirely.

There was, however, a way to avoid all that...

Dr. Ryan returned to the central lab.  He was not wearing the Racal
suit because of his visit to greenhouse number three.  He needed it
because he intended to check his viral cultures this evening.

Attaching his suit's air hose to the central pillar, he removed a petri
dish from a sealed compartment and placed it into the receiving tray of
the scanning electron microscope.  The monitor came to life with a
display of countless small shapes wriggling through a brown liquid
medium.

There were two different type of viruses growing in this culture, both
entirely new and designed by him. The first carried the hybrid portion
of NCR's DNA, and would change normal tobacco plants into the hybrid.
The second virus altered selected cell nuclei in the hybrid, turning
those cells into "factories" for the production of both viruses.  Their
protein coats were built for durability.  The viruses could survive for
years in nutritive suspension, days or weeks in open air, and could be
spread by aerosol or carried on dust particles.  If released into the
environment, they would rapidly begin the process of changing most
commercially-grown varieties of tobacco into his hybrid, first in the
western hemisphere, and eventually around the world.

Of course, that would prevent Osborn-Smithson from making any special
profits on his invention, but he had already decided that was unlikely
anyway.  In this matter, loyalty to one's employer was pointless and
counter-productive.

However, the moment for release of the viruses was not yet.  There were
still questions to be settled, some potentially dire; a mouse was a far
less complex organism than a human being.  He and Shelly would have to
provide the answers.


12.  Sharing the Wealth

Shelly entered Mary Lou's bedroom.  "Mary Lou..."

"Hi, honey!  Come foah another lesson?"  Mary Lou looked much the same
as last night, except now she was wearing a yellow-flannel nightgown.
Shelly pulled the vanity stool close to the bed and sat down.

"Not exactly," said Shelly.  "A lot went on at work today..."  She gave
Mary Lou an abbreviated version, leaving out most of the technical
details.

"Wow!" said Mary Lou.  "Did they let you take any of those new
cigarettes home, by chance?"

Shelly opened her purse and pulled out an opened pack of RCJ Premiums.
She tossed the pack to Mary Lou.  "Here you go!  You must try these!"
Shelly was so enthusiastic she did not notice another object leave her
purse and fall to the floor, where it lay partially concealed under the
bed's pink dust ruffle.

Mary Lou examined the pack as she opened it.  "Looks fairly ordinary to
me, sugah..."

"Just open it and give me one, I'm dying here!" said Shelly.

"Here you go, darlin'."  Mary Lou handed Shelly a cigarette and took
one for herself.  She fired a lighter and lit Shelly's, then her own.

"Mmmm," said Mary Lou as she dragged and inhaled deeply.  "God in
heaven, what did he put in these?  Pot?"  Smoke began to curl from her
mouth as she spoke, and after speaking she blew the rest out in a thick
plume.

"Nope," said Shelly, producing her own too-white emissions.  "Just that
strange plant from Brazil, like I told you, and not too much of that."
Privately, Shelly was beginning to wonder if that could be true...98
percent "normal" tobacco did not seem quite plausible for these
wonderful cigarettes.

Little more was said as the two girls savored the rich smoke.  Shelly
saw Mary Lou's skin flush as hers had,  and wondered if she would
turned-on sexually as well.  Each time she smoked one, Shelly could
feel her vagina moisten.

When she had finally stubbed out her cigarette, Mary Lou said, "are you
sure there's any tobacco in this, honey?  If not, my papa is going to
have to find another line of work!"

"There is, don't worry," said Shelly, as she let loose another immense,
thick exhale.  She saw a dreamy look in Mary Lou's eyes, and her hand
wandering to the fringe of her nightgown.  Shelly was almost tempted to
help, even though she had never before experienced an attraction to
another woman.  Instead, she continued, "let's have another!"

After three more RCJ Premiums each, the room was smoky as an old-time
steel mill.  There came a soft knock on the door and Mary Lou's mother
entered.  "Good lord," she said, "I saw smoke under the door and I
thought the house was on fire!  Are those funny cigarettes you're
smokin'?"

"No mama," said Mary Lou, "just a new blend from the factory."  Shelly
had already warned Mary Lou about saying too much.

"All right, then, you girls enjoy them..."  Mrs. Demming left.

"I'm feeling a mite drowsy, sugah," said Mary Lou.  "May ah keep this
pack?"

"Sure," said Shelly.  "When I get the chance, I'll bring you more."
Shelly was feeling sleepy herself...and something else besides.
Whatever was happening, she had the feeling that it would be best to
experience it alone...or at least not with Mary Lou.  She left the
bedroom.


13.  Metamorphosis

Dr. Ryan pressed a button under his desk, and a bookcase on the rear
wall swung back to expose the entrance to his apartments.  He had never
been comfortable with being a public figure; it got in the way of his
work.  He had included hidden living quarters in his design for the R&D
lab, and only a few trusted subordinates knew they existed or how to
reach him when he was there.

He was also feeling an odd drowsiness, but had no intention of sleeping
this night if he could help it.  Instead, he sat at a small table and
activated his private electronic journal.  He knew the crisis was
approaching rapidly, and wanted to make sure each stage was properly
recorded for later study.  Hopefully, his own study...if not, for those
who would follow.  He was no longer sure of sane survival.

Dr. Ryan wrote: "As I observed earlier in the mice, once RCJ enters the
bloodstream it begins its work quickly, the rich chemical brew rapidly
changing the subject's cell structure and all organic molecules to the
polymerized versions the original plant employs.  I had anticipated
that changes in a human subject would proceed more slowly because of
its larger size and greater complexity, particularly in the central
nervous system.  Observations of subjects Ryan and Aronsen have forced
me to reassess that opinion."

The compound fracture of Mary Lou's lower tibia had been anything but
clean, and it was still all she could do to hobble back and forth to
the bathroom on crutches.  She needed a nightly dose of oxycodone syrup
to fall asleep comfortably. Tonight, though, she was plagued with a
persistent itch under her cast which she could not scratch.  When sleep
finally came, she tossed restlessly.

"Tissues restructured by RCJ's mutagenic action are highly resistant to
trauma and are seen to heal at an accelerated rate.  The high-energy
phosphor bonds between constituent atoms are very persistent and
quickly reestablished when broken.  Coupled with changes to the nervous
system, even regeneration of lost tissues is a distinct possibility.
Pre-existing injury sites become concentration points for RCJ compounds
in the blood."

In her bed at home, Shelly also tossed and turned, disturbed by strange
dreams of caterpillars and butterflies.  She was startled to
wakefulness by a loud plop, and opened her eyes to a blinding white
light.  She quickly shut them again, wincing.  She shrank her pupils to
reduce the incoming glare without thinking, then wondered at what she
had just done.  Wasn't that automatic?

When she opened her eyes the room had darkened, but she could still see
clearly.  Very clearly.  Each shadowy detail was sharp and hard-edged.
She heard the loud plop again, and realized that it was her leaky
bathroom faucet, separated from her by 20 feet and two closed doors.
Concentrating on her hearing, she found that she could detect many
sounds that should have been inaudible...quite voices from neighboring
apartments, a car passing far away, the call of a distant owl.  She
willed these sounds to fade away...and they did.

No longer distracted by light and noise, she noticed that the sheets
above and below her nude form seemed coarse and irritating, as if every
thread was abrading her skin.  The sensation faded even as her
annoyance registered.

Experimentally, she focused on her taste and smell.  The bittersweet
savor of her last RCJ Premium was still fresh in her mouth.  There was
also a myriad of odors in the room, some pleasant, some not; the smell
of her own musk, lingering disinfectant, mildew, perspiration, and many
others less identifiable.  She found she could also filter out these
sensations at will.

"I have noted in my own case that RCJ enhances sensual acuity and
permits the subject to blunt and sharpen the senses at need.  This is
fortunate, or we should eventually suffer the sort of mania that
plagued Poe's characters in "The Fall of the House of Usher."
Ordinarily, I would need reading glasses to work on this journal; they
are no longer necessary.

"In addition, functions regulated by the autonomic nervous system are
subject to a degree of conscious control rarely reported in the
literature.  I can, to a large extent, regulate my own heart rate,
blood pressure, and brain waves."

Shelly raised her hands to her unbound hair.  It felt thicker, fuller,
and almost sensitive to her touch.  She ran her hands along her
breasts, hips, and thighs, noting their infant smoothness and marvelous
responsiveness to her fondling.  However, she could not linger over
these pleasures, because she urgently needed to visit the toilet.

In the bathroom she flicked on a light, unconsciously contracting her
pupils as she did so.  Her skin looked different.  It was not only
smoother, but somehow translucent..."

"Changes to the epidermal and dermal layers of the skin increase
surface albedo, providing improved protection from UV-B and other
high-frequency radiation, as well as reduced vulnerability to
temperature changes .  Surface texture becomes finer and more resistant
to abrasions and bruises.  Nails and hair growth were retarded in mice,
and I expect the same effect in the human subjects."

Sitting on the pot, she felt her bladder and bowels immediately loose
an alarming flood.  Her heart raced in real fear; she slowed it and
relaxed herself.  She needed to flush twice before she could rise
again.  When she saw what she had excreted and voided, she vomited
another flood of liquid into the overflowing bowl.

"Due to the increased metabolic efficiency of RCJ-altered tissues, the
human body does not need the fluid reserves previously required.  Prior
to exact tests, I estimate that the total water content of subject Ryan
has been reduced by one-third.  The new metabolic efficiency also
provides more stable endothermic regulation (increasing resistance to
hyper- and hypothermia), as well as reduced need for water,
nourishment, and rest.  Immune response is similarly improved."

When the bouts of nausea and watery diarrhea had ceased, Shelly was
surprised to find she did not feel sick at all...in fact, she felt
better and more alive than ever before.  She knew she must be seriously
dehydrated, but she was not thirsty, dizzy, or weak.  She needed to
talk to Dr. Ryan, though...she might be in desperate trouble, no matter
how well she felt.

She knew she should be panicky, nervous, and ready to climb the walls,
but she was not.  Instead, she carefully considered how to reach Dr.
Ryan.  He would not be at the lab at this hour, and she had no idea
where he lived.  She took a step toward the bathroom door...and instead
made a small leap into the air.

"Both striated and smooth muscle tissue are re-knit by RCJ in a manner
that greatly increases both efficiency and strength.  To support the
new musculature, the bones become almost as strong as structural
steel.  It will be necessary for the human subjects to relearn both
large and fine motor skills to avoid unnecessary damage to their
environment.  The normal resting heart rate and respiration of subject
Ryan have been reduced to 25 beats and 4 breaths per minute,
respectively, and can be further slowed consciously without serious
effects.  What will be the consequences for longevity?  Can society
afford this sort of change?  Do we have the right to withhold it in any
event?  There are many questions I have neglected to ask and must now
confront...quickly."

Shelly walked gingerly back to the bedroom.  An experimental jump had
resulted in a stunning head bump on the ceiling, but both pain and lump
had rapidly subsided.  Too rapidly. The plaster was cracked where she
had hit it.

She placed two fingers under the foot of her bed and lifted.  The bed
rose easily, as if it had been turned into a balsa-wood movie prop.
She would have to be careful of her strength, now.

A quick check of the phone book showed no listing for Dr. Ryan.  The
symbols on the page became unfocused, difficult to read.  She felt her
head spinning...she was growing confused.

"However, all changes in the human subject pale to insignificance
beside those that occur to the central nervous system.  It is in this
area that I can least extrapolate from my observations of the mice.  I
know that RCJ causes a narrowing of synapse gaps, inhibits
acetylcholinesterase, and promotes increased neuron firing to what
would seem a pathological degree.  The CNS becomes, in effect, an
integrated electrochemical superconductor.  The physiological
consequences are obvious...rapid and accurate memory access, an
increase in theoretical cognitive efficiency, more immediate
brain-sensory feedback, and a larger associative capacity.  But what of
the psychological effects?  Can the human psyche assimilate these
changes and maintain function?  Is rationality as I know it possible at
these velocities?  I now appreciate that the observer can only learn so
much by observing himself.  Might I not, at this moment, be gibbering
and drooling at my journal, entirely unaware of my derangement?

"Previously, I would have judged many of these questions
meaningless...I believed there was no  intelligible distinction between
'mind' and 'body.'  Now, based on personal experience, I am no longer
sure..."

Shelly lay prone on the bed, trying to restrain a whirl of thoughts
that threatened to overwhelm her.  She had noticed before that Mary Lou
had seemed...slower when they had talked that night.  Now that process
seemed to be accelerating within her, even though there was nothing
here to gauge it against.  Or perhaps...

Carefully and slowly, she lifted her watch from the nightstand and
examined it.  Even in the near-total darkness, it was easy to read.
She focused on the second hand.  Tick.  She counted slowly to ten.
Tick.  She willed the second hand to speed up, then counted to five.
Tick.  Counted to two.  Tick.  The second hand would move no faster,
but her thoughts were under much better control now.

Still moving with slow deliberation, she lifted her pack of cigarettes
and withdrew one.  Perhaps she should switch brands!  But she knew it
was too late for that, probably was too late after she had smoked the
first one.  These white cylinders were so fragile she had to handle
them like wet tissue paper.  She placed a cigarette in her mouth, lit
it, and dragged.

Half the cigarette was consumed immediately, ashes falling on the bed.
She double-pumped and it was down to the filter.  She swept hot ashes
from the sheet, noting that she felt no pain as she did so.  Exhaling
thickly, she dressed quickly without doing too much damage to her
clothing.

She was still exhaling smoke when she started her car.

"In summary, the scope of these changes more than warrant a new
subspecies designation, which I provisionally name 'Homo Sapiens
Coelensis.'"


14.  Another Sleepless Night

Stuart Brickman also did not sleep restfully that night.  Something was
bothering his journalistic instincts...and he rarely ignored those
warnings.

He had not expected anything from Aronsen for several weeks, and in
fact had discouraged her from contacting him before she had solid
evidence in hand.  It had only been two days.  But, damn it, something
was wrong, he could feel it!

At four AM he gave up sleep for a lost cause and phoned Shelly.  He let
it ring 15 times before hanging up.  Where was she at this hour?  With
a boyfriend?  And she wanted to be an investigative reporter!

Not willing to let it drop, he decided to call Roger Demming.  The man
was a farmer and he damn well ought to be up.  Demming answered, not at
all awake or cheerful about the interruption.  He calmed down after a
moment, then told Brickman that Shelly had been by to visit Mary Lou
each of the last two nights.

"I'd like to speak to Mary Lou right away," said Brickman.  "It's
important."  Demming had no grounds to argue. He was profiting
handsomely from this investigation.

Demming finally agreed to wake up Mary Lou after Brickman arrived, then
hung up.  Brickman dressed quickly.  He needed to know what was going
on.


15.  Rendezvous

"Damn!"  Shelly swore as she fumbled in her purse, ripping the leather
slightly.  Her ID badge was missing.  She was stopped outside the OST
security gate with no way in.

There was a phone mounted by the badge slot, and Shelly lifted it from
its cradle.  "Security," said a bored voice.

"This is Mary Lou Demming, 343-76-1252.  I am at the outer gate and I
forgot my badge.  I need to speak to Dr. Ryan urgently."

"Just a sec," said the voice.  After a short pause, he returned.  "He
doesn't answer, Miss Demming, but that doesn't mean he isn't there.
I'll let you in, but please stop by the guard desk to pick up a
temporary pass."

"Sure, and thanks!"

After Shelly had passed a fingerprint test and gotten her pass, she
navigated the mostly-deserted corridors to Dr. Ryan's office.  She saw
a light under his door and knocked.  No answer.  She turned the knob
and the door opened.  No one there.  She entered anyway.

As she closed the door behind her, one of the bookcases swung inward,
and Dr. Ryan entered the small office.

Shelly saw the changes in him immediately.  His skin had the same
translucent look as hers did.  His hair was thicker and fuller than
before, all traces of gray gone.  His eyes shown brightly, and a smile
lighted his boyish face.

"Come in, Miss Aronsen.  I've been expecting you."

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